In the potter's oven there are people of clay.
People that have been moulded in a very specific way.
Realistic in flaws; every aspect of humanity on display.
Carefully placed by the potter on the tray.
To reflect the people the potter has seen through all the potter's days.
These clay people care little for the way they appear and what they weigh.
These clay people in a peaceful statuesque formation not a fray.
These clay people's opinions of the potter will never sway.
The potter lifts them out and returns them after a quick glazing spray.
Marvelling at his creation, happy and gay.
Knowing that these clay people will never betray.
Knowing that these clay people would never have a harmful word to say.
Yet still can manifest his dreams and to an extent even humanity they convey.
These clay people are incapable of foul play.
Yet hideous to the eye, some would throw them away.
In their silence they bake so that someday.
In some way.
Someone can realise that beauty is in the eye of the beholder to whittle away that sense of self degradation.
That's the fate he hopes for these decorations.
These lumps of clay.